


All Mortal Flesh

by Aequoria



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Bad Touch Chancellor, Catholic Character, Catholic School, Choir Boy Prompto, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, Religious References, Roman Catholicism, Sexual Harassment, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria
Summary: There has always been something about Mr Izunia that sets Prompto on edge. Perhaps it is his words, or his mannerisms, or just the way he looms so tall and large- but such thoughts are uncharitable, and he knows he is being ridiculous. He is a musical genius, an eccentric by all accounts. He'd taught Prompto to sing like an angel. Prompto shouldn't think badly of this man, despite his strangeness.And yet.





	1. With Fear and Trembling Stand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [invisibledeity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/gifts).



> I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. This is the most guilt-inducing thing I have ever written. I'm actually really religious, a practicing Catholic, I love my God and my faith and the whole community of faithful. They've been nothing but kind and good to me and I've been lucky enough to have never come across anyone with bad intentions in all the years I've been part of the church. (outside the church is another story)
> 
> But the thing is, I know this sort of thing does happen. This fic isn't meant to be a commentary on it or anything, and I'm sorry if it's terrible. But I can't get this plot out of my head!
> 
> Also I wanted to thank invisibledeity for all his help figuring out tags and warnings and for basically inspiring this whole thing.
> 
> This will be maybe... 3 or 4 chapters long IDK, it was originally going to be a one-shot but I really wanted to see some resolution to this! Stay tuned for more Bad Touch Ardyn

His breath comes in shudders and puffs of vapour. It is cold in his room, despite the Head of House having placed a rickety old space heater by his bed out of pity. His toes curl against the carpeted floor, and he dresses quickly, donning his school uniform without caring how it looks. His bare torso shivers in the chill, and goosebumps rise on his skin.

It's a Sunday, which means Prompto is out of bed and ready before anyone else. Rehearsal starts two hours before the service; Mr Izunia had been insistent that the choir be there before even the altar servers began their preparations. And Prompto, more than anyone else, needs the extra time. Mr Izunia is an exacting director, and the solos are reserved for Prompto alone. He can't disappoint him.

The snow crunches under his shoes as he trudges to the chapel, and he takes the time to fix himself. He tucks in the hems of his crisp white dress shirt, smooths his collar and straightens his jumper. A pin badge is falling off of his blazer- it's the skull and crossbones one that he really likes, the one that makes his teachers roll their eyes but isn't actually against dress code. He takes it off, this time. Mr Izunia doesn't like him to be sloppy. 

The chapel is beautiful. It's an old brick building, separated from the rest of the school by a winding stone path. It's far too large for its current purpose; only about three-quarters of the boys are boarders, and most of them go home every weekend. Only a handful stay, and those that do must attend Sunday Mass- Prompto knows how Noctis grumbles, but personally, he likes it. He likes the chapel, with its old, weathered charm; he likes the forest surrounding the school, and if he's lucky, a deer will come out and Prompto can feed it stolen cafeteria carrots from his hand and take selfies on his phone.

Most of all, he likes to sing.

He enters the chapel and kneels in the middle of the aisle, crossing himself solemnly. He smiles up, wide and guileless, at the crucifix that hangs above the altar. He likes it best this way, when it's still and silent and he can be alone with the God who loved him before anyone else ever did. Noct never understands, but Prompto does. Prompto wishes no one else had to come and invade this sacred space, but he knows he can't be selfish.

He hums a sweet hymn as he stands, warming up his voice. He ducks into the sacristy and pulls on the white, flowing garment left there for him- a spare from the altar servers. None of the other choir boys have to wear anything except their school uniform, but Mr Izunia insists that Prompto does. Mr Izunia says it makes him look angelic.

Prompto doesn't feel like an angel, but at least he can look the part.

In the choir loft, he picks up his music sheets and practices by himself. His fingers run over the notes as he sings praises high and sweet. His eyes close, and the words pour through him like a soothing balm. All the empty places in his soul, all the aching wounds in his heart- they disappear in this holy place, in this sacred ground where he is made whole.

"Perfection." The voice rips through the calm like a gunshot, and Prompto opens his eyes in fright.

"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean to startle you." Mr Izunia smiles, and walks across the choir loft towards him. He is slow and deliberate when he moves- snakelike, Prompto thinks to himself. There's something about him that feels wrong, feels like something Prompto can't put words to. Something like darkness. Something like-

_Desecration._

But that can't be right. Mr Izunia has only ever been good to him. Prompto immediately feels guilty, and waves at him as he approaches.

"Good morning!"

Mr Izunia smiles, and it looks very kind. "Good morning, Prompto. Well done on getting here early, as usual."

Prompto nods, and he can't help his smile. "Yeah! I like it when I can just be alone here, y'know? Even just for a little bit, before everyone starts setting up."

"Such dedication." A hand settles on Prompto's shoulder. "I enjoy having the time alone together as well."

There has always been something about Mr Izunia that sets Prompto on edge. Perhaps it is his words, or his mannerisms, or just the way he looms so tall and large- but such thoughts are uncharitable, and he knows he is being ridiculous. He is a musical genius, an eccentric by all accounts. He'd taught Prompto to sing like an angel. Prompto shouldn't think badly of this man, despite his strangeness.

And yet.

Prompto stands straight when instructed, flips his book to the required page. Mr Izunia tolerates no disobedience. 

But a hand rests over the crease of his book, and presses down gently. Confused, Prompto glances up.

"Look at me," his teacher says. His voice is low and deep. "You know the words, don't you? Clever boy. Look only at me."

Slowly, Prompto lowers his book. 

"Good boy," Mr Izunia says, and Prompto flushes with the praise. 

"Thank you," he whispers.

"There is such a sweetness to you," Mr Izunia says, reaching out his hand. For a heart-stopping moment, Prompto thinks he is going to caress him; instead, the hand moves to his unstyled hair, and ruffles it. "My star."

Prompto doesn't know where to look, and fixes his gaze on the buttons of Mr Izunia's coat. He is still pink from pleasure at the compliment, but- it's normal, isn't it? Prompto wouldn't know, he's never had a father like Noctis does, like all the other boys do. Maybe this is normal.

Whatever it is, he'll keep quiet. 

Mr Izunia withdraws, and Prompto can suddenly breathe again. "Now, let's begin. Watch me for the dynamics and timing."

Prompto sighs in relief. These are the roles he prefers- those of chorister and conductor, although he would have preferred the other boys to be here as well. Still, he will sing for his Lord, and that is what matters.

The hymn fills the air, praise and humility drawn sweetly from his lips.

_Let all mortal flesh keep silence-_

His skin crawls under Mr Izunia's stare. He stutters.

_-and with fear and trembling stand-_

The diaphragm is located just under the lungs, just under the heart. A hand, large and warm, settles there, and Prompto shivers as a fingertip brushes his nipple under the layers of cloth. He wonders if it can feel the way his heart leaps into his throat.

"My dear boy," the voice whispers softly. "I know you can do better than that."

Prompto nods, ashamed, and opens his mouth to _sing_.

It's just his imagination.


	2. Deep In Thy Wounds, Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I really didn't expect the response I got for this fic!! Thank you so much to everyone who read it, left kudos, commented, bookmarked, and otherwise shown their appreciation. ♥️
> 
> This chapter takes it in a slightly different direction from the previous one. I hope you all still like this!

The thing is, Prompto isn't even meant to be here.

His name is on the list of students, true. But he doesn't belong in this world, in this fairytale nestled in its forested valley. He wasn't born for this school with its Victorian charm and high society boys. He doesn't know _what_ he was born for, but surely- surely not this.

He finds out by accident what his social worker won't say: his birth parents had given him up for adoption, after being warned multiple times about being arrested for neglect. He has vague memories of spending his early years in an orphanage, then of bouncing from foster home to foster home. No one had wanted him. He can't blame them. He'd been an unfriendly child, silent as a ghost- until, by chance, someone had heard him sing.

A music scholarship for an unwanted orphan sounds like a publicity stunt. To Prompto, it had been a dream. He'd been dressed up, put on stages, paraded in front of adults wearing sharp suits and polite smiles. Then he'd left his latest foster home to go to a prestigious boarding school, and was _reborn._

And so Prompto smiles for Mr Izunia, sings at his command, his pulse fluttering like a hummingbird's wings when those hands touch his skin. He is not the ghost-child anymore; he will not be forgotten.

He loves his new life dearly, and if he fails- if he stumbles- if he's _not good enough_ -

Well. At least, for a moment, he'd have had a glimpse of heaven.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Prompto isn't at the tuck shop when Noctis arrives.

It's not that unusual, these days. Prompto hasn't been able to hang out after school as much as he used to. But the school's tuck shop is only open for an hour each day, and Noctis really wants to get his daily supply of sweets and crisps. The younger boys are shoving each other to get inside the cramped little shop, and Noctis is getting impatient.

In the end, he has to buy both of their snacks. His pockets are filled with chocolate bars and strawberry laces, and he chews a handful of gummy bears as he walks back to the boarding house. His right hand taps a melody against his leg. Chopin, for his next piano recital. He'll have to talk to Mr Izunia about borrowing the music room for extra practice. Maybe he can stop Prompto from hogging the place for a change.

Speaking of Mr Izunia-

Noctis rounds the corner and sees him strolling away from the music corridor. He's about to call out when he notices Prompto's small form half-hidden behind their teacher's bulk. He stops.

Noctis isn't blind. He can see very well that the Prompto he's known since he was seven years old isn't the same as the one in front of him right now. There's a shyness to him, an underlying anxiousness that reminds Noctis a little of how he'd been when they first met, but it's unfamiliar on his fifteen-year-old face. Prompto doesn't hang out as much as he used to. They still sneak into each other's beds, still press together and watch cartoons under the duvet after lights-out, but during the day Prompto is always running around between the sports hall and the chapel and extra singing lessons, and can barely spare a moment of his time for his best friend.

Sure, everyone grows up. But Prompto is Prompto, and Noctis misses him.

He draws close enough to hear snatches of their conversation. Prompto is babbling about some Latin hymn and butchering the pronunciations. Noctis smiles, because that means Prompto will ask Noctis to teach him again, and that inevitably leads to long hours of King's Knight instead.

But Mr Izunia leans in close, curls a finger under Prompto's chin, and Noctis freezes.

It doesn't last long. Prompto leans away, his eyes wide and expression anxious. Mr Izunia straightens up and laughs, and tells him not to be so jittery; Prompto nods and stares at his feet.

Noctis doesn't understand what to make of it. He knows teachers aren't supposed to be that close with their students, but Mr Izunia has always been nice to them. Weird, but nice. He tells jokes and makes movie references and he's happy to teach them whatever piece they want to learn. Hell, he gives Prompto extra lessons all the time.

There is a spreading chill, starting from his toes and the tips of his fingers. Fear settles like a tight ball in his stomach, though Noctis doesn't understand why.

It was an innocent gesture, nothing more. What Noctis had thought in that instance- it's nothing. It's the kind of thing that happens to other people, to other, unlucky kids with gross old teachers. Not Prompto. Not Mr Izunia.

Prompto looks so afraid.

"Ah, Noctis," Mr Izunia says, finally spotting him. His gaze seems to pierce straight through him, as though he can see right through Noctis' skin to the crawling anxiety beneath.

"Hey, Mr Izunia. Hi Prom," Noctis says. His voice is surprisingly steady.

For a moment, Prompto looks at him, and the expression on his face is so unfamiliar that he hardly looks like himself. He's smiling, but it's all wrong. There's a sadness there, an anxiousness verging on fear, and... hurt, which looks so out of place on Prompto's face that it makes Noctis' heart ache.

"I shall leave you two to it, then," Mr Izunia says with a smile. He settles a heavy hand on Prompto's shoulder, patting him twice. His touch lingers as he speaks. "Don't push yourself too hard, little star."

He turns to stroll back into the music corridor, but not before giving Noctis another searching glance.

Noctis doesn't know what to think.

"Hey, Noct," Prompto says after a moment. When Noctis looks, his smile is back to its full, blinding brightness.

Noctis breathes out, relaxes, and pulls him close to rub his knuckles into his hair vigorously. Prompto screeches and shoves him away, but they're both laughing.

"You're mean," Prompto whines, trying to fix his hair.

"Even though I got you these?" Noctis asks, pulling the packet of strawberry laces out of his pocket.

Prompto lights up and grabs it from his hand. "I take it back. You're the best!"

They make their way slowly towards the boarding house, and Noctis watches Prompto stuff his face happily. Like this, Noctis can almost forget the strange feeling from earlier. Prompto is the type of guy who wears his emotions proudly for everyone to see; he lifts everyone's spirits with his smiles and his songs and his unrelenting sweetness. Bad things don't happen to people like him.

"Hey, Prom..." Noctis starts hesitantly.

Prompto turns to him, a pink strawberry-flavoured string hanging out of his mouth and his eyes wide and curious. "Hm?"

Noctis stares at him, then shakes his head. "Nah. Forgot what I was gonna ask."

He hasn't at all. But Prompto looks so happy now, and Noctis doesn't want to be the cruel person who would wipe that smile away. It's easier instead to ignore the creeping unease, in favour of enjoying the moment with his best friend.

Later, Noctis thinks. He'll ask Prompto later.

(The hair on the back of Noctis' neck prickles, but he doesn't turn to look. He can feel Mr Izunia's stare until the door to the boarding house clicks shut behind them.)


	3. Fast Falls the Eventide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be amazed by the response to this fic!! Thank you so much to everyone who's read, commented, left kudos, etc etc you are all stars!!

Prompto doesn't remember how it started. He doesn't know which of the touches became the turning point, doesn't know when the sweet words and compliments became sour.

(He hates it, because Mr Izunia is good to him. Mr Izunia is kind. Mr Izunia doesn't deserve all of the disgusting, terrible thoughts Prompto has about him. He doesn't deserve to put up with any of this at all.)

Prompto loves to touch. It's grounding, in a way. It helps him remember that all of this is real, and that he's not still six years old and hiding in the bedroom because his foster parents are drunk again. He touches Noctis all the time- an arm around his shoulders, a hand slapping his back, legs tangling together when they watch kids' cartoons on Noctis' bed. He touches Ignis and Gladio too, to a lesser extent. He likes the way they ruffle his hair like they're the older brothers he's always dreamed of having.

Prompto does not like touching Mr Izunia, but he does it too.

Mr Izunia comes up behind him in the music room after school, while Prompto is practicing the hymns for Sunday. Prompto's breath catches in his throat; his heart jumps.

A hand places itself onto his back, gentle and light. It feels like a brand across his skin.

"Good evening Prompto," says the breath into his ear.

Prompto's mouth has gone dry, but he knows he must answer. "Hi, Mr Izunia."

His teacher's laugh tickles his ear and makes him shiver. "Hard at work already, I see. Such a diligent child- but, I suppose that's why you're my star."

Despite himself, Prompto flushes with pleasure at the praise. He looks down at his feet and murmurs his thanks.

The hand on his back follows the motion of his breathing. Prompto wants to claw it off, but he's frozen.

"You were in the middle of a song, weren't you?"

"Yes sir," Prompto whispers.

"Sing for me," Mr Izunia commands, and Prompto obeys.

He turns his face up and closes his eyes, the words and notes long since memorised. The hymn, when it comes, sounds like a plea.

This is his only rebellion.

Prompto sings, high and clear and sweet, but he doesn't sing for him.

_Help of the helpless, Lord, abide with me._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Gladio comes across Prompto in the woods late that Saturday afternoon. It's against the rules, but it's happened once or twice before. Prompto likes to feed the deer, like the Disney character that he is, and he likes to take pictures of flowers and trees. But the land hasn't quite escaped the harsh grip of winter yet, and the sun is setting rapidly.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Gladio says by way of greeting.

Prompto turns and gives him a faint smile. "Well, you're here now, aren't you?"

Gladio grins. "As long as we don't get caught." He walks over to where Prompto is, sits on the stump of an old, old tree.

They're quiet together. This is unusual, and Gladio finds himself itching to fill the silence. Prompto has been more reticent recently, and Gladio puts it down to growing older. There's three years between them, which might as well be a lifetime for a schoolboy. By the end of the year, Gladio will be going away for university, and Prompto will still be here, in the school's strange, idyllic bubble of reality. They're friends, but Prompto was Noctis', first and foremost. With a start, he realises he doesn't know how to talk to him anymore.

"So, you avoiding Noct, or something?" Gladio jokes awkwardly, glancing at Prompto. "Thought you guys were attached at the hip."

Prompto rolls his eyes, and Gladio is pleased to see some humour in his face. "Can't bring the headmaster's son in here, can I?" he says with a wry smile. "His dad would be so mad. We're not allowed in the woods until Year 12."

"Never stopped you two before," Gladio says.

Prompto shrugs. "Maybe I just wanted to be alone."

Gladio considers leaving him to it, but the sun really is setting fast, and he can't in good conscience leave a skinny fifteen-year-old to fend for himself in a dark forest. Especially not Prompto.

Instead, he says, "So you are avoiding someone."

Gladio wonders if he's imagining the little intake of breath Prompto makes. It makes him want to punch something. Prompto is- sweet, in a way that most teenage boys aren't anymore. He's earnest and enthusiastic, and it sometimes makes him a target for insecure bullies who are looking for someone to put down. He's not at all weak, but there's something about him that makes Gladio want to protect him.

"Who is it?" he asks. "Is someone giving you trouble?"

Prompto shakes his head violently. "No, not like that!" he says. Then he sighs, and Gladio thinks he's going to elaborate, but he doesn't.

They lapse back into silence, and Gladio becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Something is wrong here; Prompto is too quiet, and there's clearly an issue that's bothering him. But if he's anything like Gladio, he would rather people not pry into his business.

"Hey, Gladio. Can I touch you for a second?" Prompto asks out of the blue.

Gladio raises his eyebrows, but nods. "Sure. What's this about?"

Prompto's hand, small and slender, rests between his shoulder blades. "If I do this, what do you feel?"

Gladio thinks about it, wonders what Prompto's trying to get at here. "Nothing," he says simply.

Prompto pulls away, and he stares off into the trees, unseeing. "Nothing, huh..." he murmurs.

Gladio knows Prompto has had issues with anxiety before. From what Noctis has said, Prompto used to be quiet and withdrawn, barely speaking even when directly addressed. Prompto is sweet and kindhearted and friendly to a fault, but sometimes he gets anxious about making new friends and coming on too strong. It's a shame, how much Prompto second-guesses himself, because Gladio thinks it's impossible to know the kid and not love him at least a little bit.

"Yeah. No big deal," Gladio says, trying for lightheartedness.

Strangely, this makes Prompto close off even more. "Yeah," he mumbles, then he smiles, strained. "Just my imagination, I guess."

The unease in Gladio's mind only grows. "Prompto," he says carefully. "What's this really about?"

"Just curious," Prompto says. He looks down and picks at a loose thread on his coat.

It starts to snow.

Gladio watches him, and a thought enters his head suddenly, so sickening that he wishes he could burn it out of his brain. He frowns, but asks anyway- slowly, like he doesn't want to make the words real. "Prompto, did someone touch you like that? Without permission?"

He expects something else: a violent rejection, a shameful confirmation, anything. He doesn't expect Prompto to laugh it off, but maybe he should have.

"Seriously, Gladio. What do you take me for?" Prompto turns and smiles at him, and Gladio would rather believe him. The alternative is hard to bear even thinking about.

"But it's weird, isn't it? That that kind of thing even happens," Prompto says. He leans back on his log seat, putting his hand back to support himself. His head tilts up towards the sky, catching snowflakes on his lashes. "Like, God is so powerful, He could just strike bad people down. But He doesn't."

Gladio snorts. He can't help it, even when Prompto shoots him a wounded look. He's not really one to believe in the whole religion thing; most of the boys don't, even in this Catholic school. He knows Prompto is really into it, though, so he tries to be nicer than he normally would. "God could do a lot of things different, Prompto. You could ask why there are wars, or poverty, or sick kids. Bad things happen to good people, and that's not gonna stop anytime soon."

Prompto goes quiet again, staring back up to the heavens. The rest of his words are said in a whisper so quiet, it's almost swallowed by the snow. "But I'm not a good person."

It hurts, how terribly _wrong_ that sounds coming from Prompto's lips. Gladio can't handle it anymore, hates feeling so useless. He wants to grab Prompto by the shoulders and shake him and make him admit what's really been going on, just so Gladio doesn't have to fear the worst. But he knows from experience that direct confrontation will only make Prompto withdraw even more.

Instead, he holds out his hand, and helps Prompto to his feet. "Come on," he says gruffly. "It's getting late, and you really shouldn't be here. You'll miss supper."

Prompto nods, wiping melted snowflakes from his face. As they make their way out of the woods, Gladio catches sight of a tall shadow between the trees. The light has grown too dim to see clearly, and so Gladio assumes it was just one of the groundskeepers.

But it's strange. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it looked a little bit like one of the teachers.


	4. Look With Pity Upon Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS ARE ALL SO GOOD TO ME ;A; Thank you for all the wonderful comments, and all the kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks!! You make my tiny heart flutter <3
> 
> Also, I realise I miscounted the number of chapters I intended to have, haha. One more after this (I think?), and then we're done.
> 
> Also, the title of this fic is based off my favourite hymn, and I got super super emotional about this hymn a while ago and [ I made a very excited post on tumblr raving about it. ](http://catholicjigglypuff.tumblr.com/post/162941614072/im-really-embarrassed-lmao-im-not-really-a-good) I know not all of my readers will be Catholic or Christian or even religious at all, so fair warning- I got REALLY excited about my faith lmao. But eh if you're curious about the hymn at all, you're welcome to check out the post! Please excuse my awful singing I was bored alone at home. :)

Winter turns slowly into the warmth of spring, and the touch on his back still burns like a brand.

It's strange, Prompto thinks. Mr Izunia has touched him many times since they've known each other, but it's this one touch that's seared into his memory. An innocuous, encouraging pressure between his shoulder blades- it should be nothing. But his skin still tingles with the remembered contact even weeks later, and he spends his study hours with one arm bent behind his back, scratching at his skin to try to get the feeling out.

He doesn't understand.

After supper, he walks the corridors towards Mr Izunia's private office in the music department. He has a singing exam coming up soon; he knows he needs the extra practice if he wants to keep his scholarship. But his feet feel heavy, like he's dragging them through mud. His shoes squeak and scrape along the floor, and he thinks vaguely of shackles and chains. He wants to stop; every nerve is alight, like his instincts are screaming for him to stop. Still, he moves inexorably forward.

The door handle is cold under his skin, and he shivers. He pushes it open and steps into the dark room. Mr Izunia sits at the piano, his back to the door, illuminated only by the lamp shining on the sheet music in front of him. Prompto's breath catches in his throat.

Mr Izunia is singing softly, so low that Prompto strains to hear even in the otherwise silent room. There's an emotion in it, raw and aching; Prompto finds himself drawing closer. The words are ancient, foreign- perhaps Noctis would understand, but Prompto doesn't need to know the meaning to hear the anger, the agony, the strange, terrible longing.

His foot catches on an uneven bit of carpet, and he stumbles. Immediately, the room goes silent. Prompto holds his breath, but Mr Izunia only sits still for a moment, then turns to him with a jovial smile.

"My brightest star," he says, in the way that makes Prompto flush with pride. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd arrive."

Prompto scuffs his foot on the carpet, looking down in embarrassment. He knows his dawdling has made him late. "Sorry, Mr Izunia."

"I'll forgive you," his teacher says with a smile. He shuffles his sheet music, searching until he comes to a particular song. "I was thinking of this piece for your first song. It will be new to you, so I would like to practice it sooner rather than later."

Prompto nods. "Does Noct know it?" he asks.

Mr Izunia pauses, and turns to look at Prompto. "Why would dear Noctis ever need to know this?"

"Um, I was going to ask Noct to do the accompaniment, sir," Prompto says in a small voice.

"Nonsense." Mr Izunia's smile is kind. "Noctis is a superb pianist for his age, of course. But this exam is very important for you, and I'm sure you would feel more comfortable having a more, ah, _experienced_ player accompanying you."

It makes sense. Prompto lowers his head, staring at his feet as his cheeks burn in embarrassment. He doesn't know what came over him, to assume that it would be enough to ask his best friend to accompany him at his exam.

"Don't fret, my dearest boy," Mr Izunia says with amusement. "Your belief in your friends is very sweet. Come closer, and let me sing you the song."

Prompto steps around the bench to stand beside his teacher, and cranes his head to read the notes. It's angled in a strange way, and the copy is old and full of faint pencil-scribbles where Mr Izunia has marked changes. He squints, leaning forward.

"Closer, Prompto," Mr Izunia murmurs.

Prompto obeys, shuffling closer. Soon there is no space in between them, and his leg bumps against Mr Izunia's knee. He must have misunderstood. He can feel the warmth of the body beside him, and it makes heat rise in his cheeks from shame.

"Sorry," he mutters, but before he can pull away, he feels a pair of hands rest on his waist.

"Mr Izunia?" Prompto asks.

The pressure on his waist becomes heavier, and Prompto feels like he's drowning, dragged into the depths. He doesn't realise he's been moved until the backs of his legs touch Mr Izunia's thighs, and he finds himself seated on his teacher's lap.

"Sir?" Prompto's voice cracks.

"Quiet, dear one," Mr Izunia says, his voice low in his ear. "Let me play you a song."

_This is wrong_ , Prompto thinks.

Mr Izunia's breath shifts the strands of Prompto's hair, and he shivers. The tickling sensation makes him squirm, and he can hear Mr Izunia stutter on the words.

_This is wrong, wrong wrong WRONG-_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Absolutely no one is surprised that Ignis had ended up Head Boy this year. He'd taken up the post halfway through Year 12, like all the other prefects, so that the older Year 13 boys could focus on studying for their exams. So far, it has been easy; he is no stranger to hard work, so the extra duties and responsibility have come naturally to him. He's represented the school to the best of his considerable ability, and dealt with all manner of problems.

But he's never dealt with anything like this before, and the consequences of failure terrify him.

Between Gladio's concerns and Noctis' disturbing questions, Ignis is almost certain that there is something very, very wrong happening to Prompto. He also has a suspect, but... things are different, when it's a teacher. Mr Izunia is well-liked in school, and Ignis knows he'll need concrete proof if he's to accuse the head of the music department. Especially since Prompto relies upon Mr Izunia's good graces for his continued attendance at the school.

Prompto won't say a thing. Ignis wants to be understanding, but frankly, he's frustrated. Prompto is in a precarious position, but they're willing to _help him_ , damn it. Haven't they had multiple seminars on how to deal with this? Hasn't Prompto been taught to say no, and to report it to the relevant authorities?

(There is a tiny, terrible part of Ignis that thinks, _well, what does he expect if he doesn't fight back?_ He knows this is the wrong thing to think, but it's hard not to be frustrated when all he wants is to _save him_.)

But then, Ignis supposes this isn't the right environment to be having a heart-to-heart. Being two years older, Ignis isn't allowed to enter the Year 10 bedrooms. Prompto is perched on the arm of the common room sofa, eating a bowl of cereal even though it's the middle of the afternoon. Noctis is fast asleep on the armchair next to them. Another Year 10 pupil ducks into the common room, catches sight of the Head Boy frowning at him, and backs away slowly.

Really. Ignis doesn't think he's all _that_ scary.

"You kind of are, Iggy," Prompto says, and Ignis startles.

"Did I say that out loud?" he wonders.

Prompto shakes his head and laughs at him. "No, but it was written all over your face. Really, if it weren't for Noct, I don't think I'd ever have the guts to approach you."

Ignis frowns. Could this be why Prompto is so unwilling to talk? He feels a stab of sadness, that Prompto seems to prefer speaking to Noctis and Gladio over him. He sighs, shuffling closer to Prompto, and puts a comforting hand on his back.

Prompto flinches, just a little, and Ignis is reminded of why he's here.

"You know you can talk to me, right, Prompto?" he says softly.

Prompto makes an upset sound, and nods vigorously. "I didn't mean- you're not, like, _scary_ , Iggy, it was mostly a joke-"

"I'm not upset about that," Ignis says. "I just want to make sure that you know I'm here for you. If you ever need anything, Prompto, anything at all, and I say that as your friend. Not as Head Boy."

Prompto lowers his head. The rapid clinking of the spoon tells Ignis that Prompto is stuffing his face with cereal in an attempt to avoid the conversation. Ignis suppresses a sigh, knowing it would only make Prompto even more nervous. He waits.

His patience pays off. The cereal doesn't last forever, and eventually, he spots Prompto's fingers curling desperately around the empty bowl, so hard that the flesh under his fingernails go white. "I'm just going to go wash this," he mumbles.

Ignis shakes his head. "Later," he says. "Look, Prompto- we're concerned about you. We all are. We can tell something has been bothering you, and we would like to help in whatever way we can."

Prompto meets his eyes and bites his lip uncertainly. There is a kind of vulnerability to him- a wide-eyed sort of innocence, an honesty and enthusiasm that draws everyone to him like a magnet. It makes Ignis want to protect him, although right now he feels powerless. At seventeen, Ignis is still a child himself, and Prompto even more so. He may be older and more responsible, but he knows his own life has been more sheltered than Prompto's. Even if his friend tells him everything, what can Ignis do?

He shakes his head minutely. It's not the way to think. He'll take whatever evidence he can get, and help in whatever way he can. He can't fail Prompto now.

Prompto opens his mouth. But whatever he's trying to say can't seem to make it past his throat; he sits there, motionless. His eyebrows slant upwards in a strange, sad expression, and Ignis leans forward to catch whatever he might say.

"Iggy," Prompto says. His voice is strained, and he looks back down again. "Please don't take this the wrong way. But can you just trust me with this?"

If Ignis wasn't sure before, he's absolutely certain now. Prompto looks too tense, too frightened to not be hiding something. He tries to be reassuring. "If you would just tell people what's going on, you wouldn't have to go through this."

This is the wrong thing to say.

Prompto clams up, draws his arms and legs close to himself. He turns to face Ignis properly, but it's not the open, friendly manner he's accustomed to seeing. Like this, it just looks like Prompto is cornered.

"I don't know what you think you know, but it's wrong," Prompto says.

"Prompto-"

Prompto shakes his head. "No, Iggy, I can't." He turns the wobbly line of his mouth up into a smile. "It's fine. You don't have to take care of everything by yourself."

It's just like Prompto, Ignis thinks, to try and make everything better for everyone else. Ignis has never truly realised, until now, just how seriously Prompto takes other people's emotions, how little he takes care of his own. It's more than a little heartbreaking.

"I wish I could, Prompto," Ignis says quietly. "I wish you would let me."

Prompto's brittle smile breaks, and he looks away. He takes in a sharp, deep breath.

Ignis waits, tense as wire.

"I'm sorry," Prompto says. "I'm so sorry."

He leaves the room without another word, and the only sounds Ignis hears are Noctis' soft breathing and the rush of blood in his own pounding heart.


	5. See Thy Saviour, Bleeding, Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I’m sorry it’s been so long. What is it, two years?? Lmao I have no idea anymore!!
> 
> I wanted to say sorry because the reason why this took so long is because this story is an intensely personal one, as much as it’s a gift fic. While I thankfully never had a teacher like Ardyn, Prompto’s reactions and thoughts are all somewhat based in truth. I wanted to tell my story while still being sensitive to the differing experiences and emotions of other people, but I found it overwhelming to try and tell so many stories at once and in the end I decided to tell it the way I felt it, and hope that despite this, people can still find something to connect with.
> 
> In addition, due to the setting of this story (which is actually also based in truth for me), there are obviously some complicated issues surrounding faith, denominational school systems, and current events. Again, I tried to tell this in a way I thought would appeal to the greatest number of people. But the thing is, I am Catholic myself and my experience of the faith probably isn’t what many people know of, and my faith story is so entwined with my past that I can’t ever bring myself to unentangle them. So I chose, in the end, to write about the things that saved me.
> 
> I hope you understand! I know this chapter may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and it may even be really disappointing to some. But this is the story that is in my heart, the most genuine and personal story I’ve ever told, and I’m offering it all to you readers as much as it scares me to do so.
> 
> (Also since it’s been like YEARS I’d encourage you to read the previous chapters!! Enough of the behemoth notes section, on with the story!)

Ardyn had been a good person once upon a time. Young and idealistic, so headstrong. The world had been there for the taking, and he'd had so much to offer in return.

Now, Ardyn knows that to be a distant dream. Oh, he's done alright for himself, considering his circumstances. As the Head of Music at a prestigious boys' school, he gets a comfortable salary and good benefits; he can't complain about that.

But it had been simply _monotonous_. Day in, day out, it was all the same: drive into the school grounds, grab a coffee and listen to the latest drivel that counted as news in the staff room, and teach spoiled, unmotivated brats how to play pieces their tiny little minds couldn't even begin to appreciate. He was losing himself; all the fire and steel that had seen him through his darkest of days was corroding, slipping away until he could barely recognise himself for the damage.

And then Prompto had appeared.

Ardyn had taken to mentoring the boy immediately, as soon as he had started teaching at the school. More than just talent, Prompto had shown a drive to learn, a need to please, and Ardyn had been drawn to him helplessly, like a moth to a flame. Prompto will be his downfall, the temptation that finally breaks Ardyn down, and he can do nothing but draw endlessly closer.

But even more than this- he knows Prompto, knows every freckle and blemish on that fair skin, from the ends of his golden hair to the edges of his fingertips.

He knows the way his voice wavers when Ardyn rests a hand on the small of his back.

He knows the dizzying heights to which Prompto's sweet, clear voice can transport a soul, even one as broken and filthy as Ardyn's.

He knows exactly how to control him.

God, but Ardyn has never known anyone so captivating.

No one else has ever ignited such a feeling in him. The need is deeper than anything he's ever felt, going far beyond the boundaries of mentor and protégé. It is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He needs to have him, to own him; he sees the way others covet his prize, but everyone knows that Prompto is his.

He hums under his breath as he roams the corridors of the Year 10 bedrooms, as he always does on Monday nights. They are his assigned weekly rounds, to make sure none of the pupils are getting into trouble and that they’re studying, as they should be until 9 PM. He loves Mondays, because he gets to see Prompto. The routine is so _boring_ on all the other days.

By now he’s done this often enough that he doesn’t need to consult his sheet to know whose room he’s knocking on. He raps on the door thrice and opens it to find Noctis in his usual garbage heap, sitting on his bed with a pile of empty crisp bags and sweet wrappers surrounding him.

“Noctis,” Ardyn says sternly, and Noctis snaps to attention and hides his phone.

“Hi Mr Izunia. You’re, uh. Early tonight.” So defensive.

“Yes, well, a new season of my favourite television series starts tonight, and I would like to be home to catch it. I do have a life outside of this school, you know.”

Noctis laughs, relaxing. For some reason, the pile of empty wrappers beside him shifts without being touched.

Ardyn smiles slowly. “Dear Prompto. There’s really no use trying to hide from me.”

For a moment, there is silence. Noctis coughs, and looks panicked. “Uh, Prompto’s not here, he’s in his room.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ardyn says simply. “Prompto, come out.”

There is the obedience Ardyn so adores. The pile of wrappers shifts again, and slowly Prompto emerges from underneath the duvet, his face flushed and his hair messy. His eyes are wide and fearful.

“We were just watching cartoons,” Noctis says anxiously, fiddling with his duvet. “We didn’t get much homework and we finished it all earlier. I-It was a group thing! We’re lab partners!”

“Is that so,” Ardyn says mildly.

“It’s true,” Prompto says in a tiny, frightened voice. Ardyn relishes in the sound of him, the thrill running through him like a lightning strike.

He heaved a deep sigh, making a theatrical motion with his hand as he marks something on his clipboard. “I’ll let this slide just this once,” he says, and hears their twin sighs of relief. “I know you are both model pupils normally.”

“Thank you, Mr Izunia!”

Ardyn puts a finger to his lips and winks. “Now, dear Prompto, you mustn’t be so loud. Don’t let the other boys hear, or my reputation will be in tatters- and then what shall we do?”

Prompto’s eyes go wide and round again, and he nods quietly.

So obedient. Ardyn _adores_ him. “Well, goodnight then, boys,” he says, turning around to leave. “Don’t stay up too late, you have lessons tomorrow.”

He closes Noctis’ bedroom door behind him and stays for a moment, listening until he can hear their chatter starting up again, muffled though it is. He strains for Prompto’s voice, higher and sweeter- ah, there it is. He closes his eyes a moment and listens as long as he dares.

When he finally leaves to continue his rounds, he hums a hymn under his breath. The song trembles in his throat, against his lips, begging freedom, and he obliges, as he always does.

_By my sins I have deserved death and endless misery,_ he murmurs with a wry smile. _Hell with all its pains and torments, and for all eternity._

Had he still been a good man, perhaps this would have been enough to deter him. But Ardyn Izunia is not a good man, and he walks on, a song on his lips, and the sound of his dear boy’s voice in the rushing of his blood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Prompto is late, today. He'd been at the sports hall, on the indoor track that circled the courts, but his heart hadn't been in it. He'd lagged far behind his usual pace at athletics training, legs heavy like weights. Afterwards, he'd waited for the other boys to leave the locker room before barricading himself in a bathroom stall. He'd changed his clothes with haste, eyes fixed firmly on a scuff mark on the door as though he could distract himself from the crawling sensation of (maybe, possibly) being watched.

The clock is just striking half-past five when he slips into the chapel. He's missed the start of adoration, but no one else really comes to this except for him, so he's not all that bothered. Father Leonis has already been to expose the Blessed Sacrament; the Body of Christ in its golden monstrance sits upon the altar, perfect and sacred and pure.

For a moment, Prompto simply gazes at it from the doorway. His skin still crawls; he doesn't know if it's the sweat from his run or the lingering wrongness of Mr Izunia's touch. Is he still worthy of even being in here? Or maybe God would look upon him, see the remnants of impurity, and simply turn away.

Still, Prompto walks up the aisle of the silent chapel, picks a pew near the front. He sinks to both knees, and bends forward in a low bow as he crosses himself. He stands again, and slides into the pew, kneeling down to pray.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn't know what to say.

He kneels in silence, mind wandering in a thousand directions at once. He can't focus on anything, jumping from thought to half-formed thought. His heart races like he's still on the track. There is blood pounding through his veins, loud like a drum in his ears. He turns his gaze back onto the Blessed Sacrament like a starving man.

_What am I doing here?_ he wonders, not for the first time. _Are You even really there?_

The Eucharist stares back, silent and unchanging. Prompto's eyes begin to water and sting.

The silence returns to him so slowly, but it does, eventually, return. Prompto feels the tightness in his chest begin to ease, and he forces himself to calm, to focus. Nothing can touch him here. If he can make himself believe that, maybe it will turn out to be true. He gazes up at the Body, and then he _breathes_ again.

He’s not good at remembering prayers. He thinks of some hymns, but none seem to fit the moment. A psalm would be very nice today.

_I love You, Lord, my strength_ , he thinks in a simple, pleasant tune, and something inside him shifts and settles into place, and he feels more like himself than he has in a very long time. _My rock, my fortress, my Saviour._

Prompto has never really said any prayers for himself. For Noctis, yes- he wonders sometimes if God ever gets tired of hearing Noctis' name in Prompto's prayers, but it doesn't stop him. For Ignis and Gladio too, for the other kids at the care homes he's lived in, for the cute dogs he used to see in the street before he moved into the boarding school. And as for himself- well, Prompto thinks he needs to deserve it first.

_Please bless Noct and Iggy and Gladio, and keep them safe all the time. Please help Gladio pass his exams so he can get into the university he wants, and Noct's leg has been acting up again, so it would be nice if You could ease his pain..._

The chapel door opens, and the quiet is broken again.

He feels him before he sees him. There is a shift in the air, an unholiness that makes Prompto's skin crawl. He knows what he'll find if he turns around, so he keeps his eyes fixed on that golden monstrance, that precious Body, lips forming prayers as he loses his breath.

For the first time, his prayers are for himself.

_Save me._

His breathing gets shallower. Every inch of skin that Mr Izunia has ever touched tingles with remembered sensation. He shudders.

Neither of them break the silence. Prompto tries to find solace in it, but it only heightens his fear. It is like an invasion, a violation of this sacred space; Mr Izunia's presence feels slick like oil and suffocating. Prompto can feel it, as though Mr Izunia is looming behind him, breathing harsh and hand warm upon his back.

Prompto’s prayers grow more fervent.

_Save me. Save me. Save me._

Suddenly, the hand at his back is all too real, and Prompto feels bile rise in his throat. He throws himself to the side, but he's trapped by the pews.

"Not here," Prompto whispers, trembling as he backs away. "Not anymore."

Mr Izunia takes his hand away as though he'd been burned, and raises it in a placating gesture. "My dear boy," he says. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

The doubt eats at him and his gut churns with guilt. His skin crawls where Mr Izunia touched him. He doesn't know what to think. He flinches away when Mr Izunia reaches for him again, but the grip on his arm is tight, too tight-

_Help me. Help me, please._

The door to the sacristy flies open, and Father Leonis steps out. "I heard a commotion," he says, scanning the chapel, military-sharp. His gaze rests on Prompto, white and shaking, and then on Mr Izunia. "Ardyn. Step away from the boy."

Mr Izunia lets go and turns in that slow, theatrical way of his. His head rolls on his neck to face the priest, and there is something so daemonic and otherworldly about the familiar action that Prompto shudders to see it.

“You are welcome to stay, if you intend to pray,” Father Leonis says, and the betrayal stabs Prompto like a knife. He turns wide-eyed to look at Mr Izunia- but to his surprise, his teacher only shrugs.

“I was only looking for my wayward pupil,” he says. “He hasn’t been attending our private lessons.”

“Then I strongly suggest you leave,” the priest says. He takes a step forward, and Prompto sees a flash of the soldier he once was. “This is a place of prayer, not for scolding your students.”

“Come now, I only-“

“Ardyn.” Father gestures towards the door. His face is full of steel. “Leave.”

Prompto can’t see it, but he imagines Mr Izunia’s expression twisting into a snarl. “Fine,” his teacher spits out, and stalks out of the chapel.

Prompto doesn’t breathe, even when the door clicks shut and Father Leonis cautiously approaches.

“I’m going to file a report,” he says softly. “Is that the first time he’s touched you like that?”

Petrified, Prompto shakes his head.

Father Leonis sighs, short and low. “I feared as much. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

He leaves, and Prompto feels a panic, suddenly, that Mr Izunia will return now that Father Leonis has left. He curls up, still wedged between the kneeler and the back of the next pew, sticks his head between his knees and tries to calm down. It doesn’t work.

He springs back to life when he hears footsteps coming closer, but it is only Father Leonis again. The priest makes as if to approach him, but there must be something in Prompto’s expression that warns him off, because he nods and turns away. Prompto watches him kneel in front of the Blessed Sacrament and begin to pray silently.

Prompto peeks again at the monstrance and slowly, slowly, the knot of fear begins to loosen. He stays curled half-under the pew.

Father Leonis doesn’t move for a long time, not until the scheduled hour for adoration has passed, and then he gets up and reposes the Blessed Sacrament, locking it back in the tabernacle. Then he takes his seat again, like a sentry keeping watch.

Prompto closes his eyes and finally allows himself to weep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” a seventeen-year-old Prompto begins, his voice soft. “My last confession was... was a few months ago. I can’t remember, I’m sorry.”

Father Leonis doesn’t reply, seemingly waiting for him to continue. Prompto takes another breath, and steels himself to continue.

“I want to tell God that I am sorry for the things I have done, and ask God to forgive me,” he recites. “My sins are...”

He lists the usual misdeeds, the ones he finds himself doing over and over again. Stealing a pen. Saying something cruel without thinking. Lying, always lying.

There is a pause, and the empty air seems all of a sudden too full. The silence hangs oppressive in the confessional, and Prompto bites his lip. All he can hear is the sound of Father Leonis breathing, as he patiently waits for what Prompto has to say.

He has a choice here. He could stop it now, receive his absolution and do his penance as usual. Or he could speak up and say what he needs to say here in this confessional to one of the few adults he trusts, one bound by sacred oath to not breathe a word of it to anyone. It seems like it should be an easy decision to make, but it still takes Prompto a few more tense minutes to say anything.

"I know I should probably speak to a counsellor," he says quietly. “Or a therapist.”

"Probably," Father Leonis says simply. "But it doesn't mean you can't talk to anyone else, if you want to."

"Even a priest?" Prompto asks.

"Even a priest."

Prompto thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

They sit in silence a little longer, and Prompto casts his gaze down to the tiled floor. He scuffs his shoes against each other anxiously. He wants to talk. It feels like a pressure in his gut, the story contained and forced down for years until it has no choice but to erupt- but still, his throat sticks and he has to take another few minutes before he tries again.

“I miss him,” he whispers. “I hate him so much, but I miss him. Is that wrong?”

Father Leonis says nothing.

“He was my friend. He was everyone’s friend. Everyone liked him. I liked him.” It all comes out in a rush. “I never told anyone that. I was so scared that if I did, people would say I- I tricked him, or something.”

“They’d be wrong.”

“I _know_ they’d be wrong. But... I’m still scared. Even now. Of everyone else, and... him too.” Prompto clenches his eyes shut, and opens them again. “Sometimes I’m okay, I think I’m doing okay. Other times, I wonder where God was, when it was all happening.”

A beat. “Do you want to know a secret, Prompto?”

Prompto nods, uncertain. “Sure.”

“We all wonder, sometimes. I do. Christ himself did.” Father Leonis leans back, and the creak of his chair is loud in the quiet confessional. “There are psalms and hymns all about this, as you know. I can’t quote them like you can, but they say something like... There is nowhere we can go where He cannot follow. He is always there, even in the moments when we feel most alone.”

Prompto thinks about that for a while. An intangible something loosens its hold around his heart, and he allows himself a tiny smile. “I guess.”

“It’s difficult,” Father Leonis says. It doesn’t feel like an empty platitude, not like the ones he has come to expect from his well-meaning, but ignorant teachers. It sounds like he _knows_. “It is not for anyone to dictate to you what to feel. You know the paths that lie ahead of you. The choice of which to take is yours. Just know that whatever you choose, you won’t be alone.”

It is a strange addition. “I just.” Prompto swallows audibly. “I just don’t understand why he did it.”

Father Leonis looks at him with the old, sad eyes of a soldier. There is a heaviness to his voice when he speaks.

“I don’t understand either. I don’t think we’ll ever understand what goes on inside the heart of someone who decides to hurt another like that, except that when the Devil came calling, they opened the door.”

He has the face of a soldier, scarred and weathered; the lines around his eyes speak of weariness as though they've seen far, far too much. Prompto wonders what other kinds of horrors he’s witnessed.

“I want to say sorry too,” Father Leonis says quietly. “For all the many times we failed you.”

Prompto’s eyes are tight and aching. Wetness drops onto his clasped hands, and the tears that leave cool trails down his arms are strangely refreshing.

“For your penance, there is nothing I ask you to do- but when you leave the chapel today, I’d like you to spend a moment before the Cross. If you’d like to pray for anything, you’re welcome to do that, but just spend a moment in silence. Is that alright?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Are you ready to make an act of contrition?”

Prompto nods. As he recites the familiar words, and the priest gives him absolution, it feels almost- almost- like being at peace.

He doesn’t linger long, after that. He has plans to meet up with Noctis to study for their exams, but he figures one moment longer won’t hurt. He seats himself in the back pew, and gazes up at the large crucifix above the altar in silence.

To Gladio, it means nothing. To Ignis, an illogical hoax. To Noctis, a vaguely interesting, but distant mystery. To Prompto, the same as it has always meant. Grief and pain, betrayal and fear. And despite everything, love. Despite everything, hope.

_You know the paths that lie ahead of you. The choice of which to take is yours._

_There is nowhere we can go where He cannot follow._

Prompto smiles, nods, and rises to leave.

It will take time, but he knows what he wants to choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reaching this point! Like I said, this story is incredibly personal so I’m sorry if it’s not what you guys wanted or expected- invisibledeity, I hope you don’t mind the direction your gift fic has taken! It seemed dishonest to tell it in any other way.
> 
> This story has been absolutely nerve-wracking to write, but also strangely freeing. Again, thanks for going on this journey with me!! I promise I will go back to my regularly scheduled (probably late) fluff/angst fics after this hahaha.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to apologise to my boarding school, my choir director, and the whole Catholic church for this.


End file.
